


Fliegen und Fallen

by Charona



Category: Formula 1 RPF, Motorsport RPF
Genre: Affairs, Alcohol, Austrian Grand Prix 2019, Birthday, Daniel is 30 and he doesn't look like it, Fluff and Angst, Implied/Referenced Cheating, Introspection, Kind of dark, M/M, Self-Doubt, Some Humor, Texting, plane thoughts (I want that to be a tag)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2019-07-01
Packaged: 2020-06-02 06:19:39
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,117
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19435657
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Charona/pseuds/Charona
Summary: High altitude and solitude are a bad combination per se. But Daniel is alone on his nightly flight home, not even the moon keeps him company.It’s only minutes until his birthday and he misses Max more than anything.





	Fliegen und Fallen

**Author's Note:**

  * For [extremesoft](https://archiveofourown.org/users/extremesoft/gifts).



> This is for **extremesoft** , because I want to.  
> And because of the plane scene that has too much resemblance with the one from _Impact_ , and because it’s Daniel’s birthday and we both adore him so much!  
> There are a few more elements I shamelessly stole from you, so… I wanted to cheer you up :DD
> 
> This is just a little scribble, really, but I hope you guys like it and let me know whether you do or don’t. 
> 
> *pulls curtain aside*

He’s surrounded by plain nothingness, sheer blackness outside which fits his inner mood perfectly, odd as it may seem. Just another hour or two and a new day is coming, his birthday. Another few hours and he’ll be at home, with his family. A few more hours and he’ll have a party with his closest friends. Beer, barbecue, music, the works. He’ll be well rested and relaxed.  
Daniel has always considered himself fortunate. He’s talented and used his talent to strive for greatness. He does, what he loves and earns a shit ton of money. His family and friends always have his back and love him unconditionally through personal and professional highs and lows. He has friends. He sleeps with one of the most beautiful people in the world and doesn’t look too bad himself despite that monstrosity of a nose of his. 

But right now Daniel just wants out. Out of Austria, out of the plane and its metallic and monochrome cage above the clouds. Out of his contract. Out of the never ending loop of images that flood his brain, unfazed by high altitude and air pressure. The disillusioning practice sessions, seconds on the standings that just wouldn’t decrease no matter how hard Daniel pushed and how hard he tried. The way the car felt over the weekend, slow, heavy, bad. Max climbing out of his car after his race win, sweaty, beaming, laughing. 

He rests his head against the round window sill and looks outside. It’s truly ridiculous how much time they spend airborne. He wasn’t lying when he posted a statement about how he spends half his life up here. It’s been that way for years and normally he’s okay with it, it gives him time to think and reminisce the races, results, reactions.  
A plane isn’t the right place for someone on the run from his thoughts, though. And those are what Daniel wants to escape the most. He wants to evade the memories and images and feelings that get to him now that he’s left the ground, hanging in the air, figuratively and literally. 

The clouds outside have cleared once they passed the Ural Mountains and headed south towards the pacific. Raven black water spreads far underneath, a colossal bathtub of pitch. The low, monotonous whirr of the engine is the only sound in the empty aircraft belly and it doesn’t offer enough distraction. There is nothing to focus on in the blackness outside and the dimly lit passenger’s space. The music he listened to for hours has blurred into an exchangeable buzz of soft beats and synths. Background music for his thoughts that he successfully steered clear of over the Alps and the Mediterranean Sea. 

He unlocks his phone screen and the bright light dazzles him for a split second. It is 11:36 p.m., another 24 minutes and he’s going to be thirty. On an airplane. Alone.  
He contemplates ordering a drink, something tangy and strong, but the flight attendant looked really tired the last time she walked past him and he doesn’t want to get up now.  
He feels tired. And old. Tired and old. 

His phone announces a few messages from colleagues and former companions, too early birthday wishes and some texts about the race.  
_Don’t remind me_ , he winces mentally. He searches for a certain name in the notifications and suppresses a sigh when his eyes don’t meet it. _He’s busy celebrating_ , is what he talks himself into. _It’s just logical, he’s been amazing._.  
Still.  
Daniel could use the company, someone to joke around with and open up a bottle of overpriced champagne at midnight. Not someone. Max. Max, who’s so many things to Daniel and so many more he can’t even fathom. Max, who’s done an incredible job today, who’s the rightful winner of the Austria GP, no matter the steward’s decision. _The sport goes down the chute_ , he thinks bitterly and wishes he had ordered that drink.  
But Max was amazing and despite his race being an absolute shit show, he felt himself blissfully basking in Max’s success that seemed like his own today. Simply because he made it his own. Because he is Max’s and Max is his. 

Still.

He fiddles for the phone for a second, makes a decision and puts it away. He doesn’t want to intrude, he has no right to do so.  
He looks out of the window again. He scans the sky and smirks. New moon. _No light tonight, baby, just the blank sky and a bitter old bloke_. Michael would laugh at that. But Michael would kick his ass, too, if he saw him like that. For Michael it is all about performance and the way it resonates in his mind-set and then back to his performance again. Butterfly effect bullshit.  
Daniel knows better. No matter how hard you try, how much you meditate (and no matter how strongly Rosberg recommends it), how badly you _want_ , there will always be shitty weekends. And no matter how hard you try to cope with it, to clear your head, to sort things out, it will never cease to hurt. It eats you alive.  
_It does eat me alive_.  
The thought makes his breathing hitch. He feels the treacherous sting behind his eyes and is thankful for the darkness. What would people say if they saw him like this? Hiding in the comfortable chair that offers no comfort whatsoever, tired to the bones and strangely void of frustration. He’s passed that. _Again_. 

He wonders if he should text Max. _I want back_ , _I want you back_ , _I want everything_.  
It’s not fair. Max is out anyway, somewhere fancy with the whole team, Dilara, Jos, Helmut. The whole entourage intoxicated with Max and Max intoxicated with winning.  
Daniel bites down on the inside of his cheek until he tastes coppery blood.  
He is intoxicated with Max, too, gets drunk on hoarse laughter, frantic touches, fleeting kisses.  
God, they are insatiable at times, ever hungry, ever wanting. More, higher, closer. 

To say Max stirred something inside of him is too little. It’s the wrong way to describe how colossal the whirlwind of irritation and admiration was Max elicited inside Daniel. What followed was desire and affection, that Max (to Daniel’s both endless shock and respect) mirrored like a grey-blue ocean surface mirrors the colour of the sky and the specks of sunlight on a clear, hot summer day.  
They had it all. Wins, losses, pride, shame, noise and silence, firsts and lasts. 

And they fell.  
Whatever falling means in their case. They didn’t crash and wreck and break up.  
Unlike Icarus they didn’t plummet with flightless wings, wax melted to the feathery core. (Although Daniel feels flightless at times, especially in planes after races like that one, and he _is_ wax in Max’s hands whether he wants to admit it or not.)  
They didn’t fall from giddy heights in a dramatic plunge, shattering on solid rock or bursting into a million pieces on the stone-hard sea surface.  
It wasn’t that theatrical and biblical and obvious.  
They tripped and fell and put the blame on each other.  
Max thought Daniel made them fall and Daniel thinks the team made him fall from Max.  
They faltered and shifted and trundled.  
They fought, they made up and fought again.  
They still do, for that matter. They circle around each other, boosting each other from the distance and blaming each other when the distance gets too much. (Daniel leaves, Max apologizes.) It works somehow, they sorted it out and made it work behind every one’s backs and in plain view. 

And that’s why Max is in Austria, partying with his girlfriend, and Daniel is on a plane on his way home.  
Daniel knows it’s moments like this, trapped in an iron cage at flight level, floating between black water and a black night sky, when he thinks they should stop what they’re doing. Daniel knows he’s too much an arrogant prick to think it through properly, simply because he doesn’t want anything to change. _Well, despite the car. And Nico’s humour. And I want the Red Bull hats back._  
But never Max. He’d sell his soul and damn himself for all eternity rather than giving up on Max. What they have is pure and true and clear despite ( _Or because? Maybe? Just saying…_ ) the hiding and pretending and lying. 

Daniel shakes off the thought, leans back into the leather headrest and closes his eyes. His phone starts to vibrate against his thigh uncontrollably for several minutes straight. 

_Happy birthday, idiot._

He misses Max. He wishes he could kiss Max and celebrate a race win and a birthday together. He remembers their slightly awkward handshake in park fermé after the race. The urge to embrace Max and hold him ran through every fibre of his body like liquid fire. Instead they held onto each other’s hand in a strange high five, frozen to place, unsure of what to do. Blinding Euphoria made him dizzy. Fear kept him in check. He saw it in Max’s eyes and oddly reflected it with his own insecurity. What felt like a million camera lenses were fixed on them, so Max just patted his sides and Daniel left with a side glance and a childish wave, while all he wanted was to kiss Max.  
Kiss him like Dilara could a moment later. Daniel saw, turned around and left. It felt like a punch to the gut, a crash at full speed, slipping of a ladder and finding nothing to cling to.  
(It works, but he never said it was easy.)

Daniel digs out his phone with a sigh, bobbing his knee and scrolling through the first notifications. His mom (including his dad for he still holds a wholehearted grudge against modern technology), Michelle, David (which makes him really happy for various reasons) and Jean-Eric with a mixture of French and English congratulations.  
The second he starts replying to the most important well-wishers a new text appears on the screen. Three letters, one name, skipping heartbeat.  
Daniel opens the chat window.

 **“Should I even ask how you’re doing?”**  
_You just did, asshole_ , is what Daniel thinks. **“Nah, better not.”** , is what he replies.  
There is a small pause and Daniel visualizes Max biting his lip and tapping the back of his phone in his habit of compensating nervousness. Daniel’s eyes water from staring at the bright screen and he blinks a few times to get rid of the burn.  
**“Would have deserved more.”**  
_I know_ , is what he thinks. **“Thx.”** is what he types back.  
**“And happy birthday, mate. You’re 30, I’m 33, our age gap shrinks.”**  
Daniel snorts a laugh. All off a sudden the plane fills with warmth again, soft, warm light seeps into the night sky alongside the dimmed glow of his phone screen.  
**”Come on, Maximus, our age difference always turned u on.”**

Daniel knows, he pushes too far, but can’t withstand the urge to tease Max, the Dutch wonder boy, the Grand Prix Champion. It’s the birthday present he grants himself, five minutes of digital flirting with Max, hidden by nocturnal fog and even without the moon as their witness.  
_Just lick the stamp and send it. Literally._  
**“You wish.”** , is the short answer Daniel receives and the thought that Max must be drunk by now infiltrates his mind, tints their conversation and its meaning.  
Daniel lowers the phone for a second, ignores the buzzing of incoming birthday wishes and can’t help wanting them all to go to hell.  
He bites his finger nail for a moment and scrolls through the messages again. _Curiosity and cats and so on_. A single one stands out from all the balloon emoji and capital letters in Jenson’s and the aubergines and hearts in Michael’s texts. Three words, one name.  
**“I love you”**  
It flares across the screen and Daniel smiles. Max is drunk, undoubtedly. Then again, they’ve spent a lot of nights (and some memorable days, as well) together, high as kites, completely wasted, more licking than kissing, more groping than touching. Daniel licks his lips vacantly.  
Sweet Jesus, the things Max could to with his mouth. Apart from being a smartass and an impossible pain in the ass. _Just in yours_ , Max would smirk and tug at his curls.  
He thinks about their relationship and the meaning of it all and the significance of the universe and damns the stupid plane he’s trapped in. A voice echoes through his mind, too distant and drowned out for Daniel to decipher.

The last time, Max has said these sweet, sweet words was in Monaco, in the middle of rumpled sheets, covered in sweat and cum and everything in between, Max drawing lazy circles on Daniel’s chest with his knuckles – an almost innocent gesture after their shameless and dirty fuck mere seconds earlier.  
Max has meant it and Daniel meant the kiss that was the only answer he could think of back then. But now Max is with Dilara and drunk and he’s a Grand Prix winner and Daniel is… not. He’s none of the three. 

His fingertip hovers over the screen for a moment and he sees the cursive _online_ disappear from under Max’s name.  
**“I know.”** , he writes back, _And I know, I shouldn’t_. They both know it’s stolen happiness, stolen from Dilara and from themselves. He knows that Max loves her and that she gives him things, Daniel can’t offer. They’ve talked it through again and again and yet _again_. It’s okay as it is. But it’s Max and Max has always been like a drug for Daniel. Making him high and dizzy and dropping on cold and solid ground again. He’s addicted to it, so it’s of no surprise that he lifts his phone instinctively when it vibrates again, like an addict catching a glance at his supplier in a dark alleyway. Suddenly the solitude of the plane isn’t that bad at all. 

**”And do you love me?”**  
Sometimes Max Verstappen is like a cat demanding affection or attention – or both. The comparison makes Daniel smirk until he thinks about the answer and his finger twitches.  
He thinks about Hungary, about Baku, Monaco. Highs and lows. Distance and closeness. Before he can think about an answer his phone chimes again.  
**“It’s okay. You don’t have to say it… write it. Whatever.”**  
It’s a short pause and Max stops typing. Daniel imagines him being interrupted by Horner or his father for a chat at the bar, maybe in a calmer spot of the party venue. A hallway, a balcony, a cattle stable. Maybe it’s Marko congratulating Max again and pointing out how miserable Daniel must feel, watching the aftermath of his decision to change teams and the desastrous low it entails for him.  
_Old shrivelled snake._ , Daniel thinks and puts all his hate and resentment into his unvoiced words.  
The vibration of his phone snaps him out of his mental rage again.  
**You’ll get there. We’ll share a podium again, we’ll get there. I’m sure.”**  
**“Okay.”** , is all Daniel can come up with as an answer. Max knows him so well and sometimes the sheer closeness of their relationship surprises him. 

**“Trust me.”**  
It makes Daniel cock his head at his phone. Max being Max again. Determination, stubbornness, pride. It affects all his actions and his whole being. Daniel’s heart leaps through his ribcage. The airplane’s engine composes a dull and low background whirring to his tapping fingers and rapidly circling thoughts. He knows he shouldn’t and does it anyway. 

**“Max?”**  
**“Mh?”** is the immediately following answer and now Daniel’s grin is wolfish. He didn’t have a clue what to say once he wrote Max’s name, but now he does.  
**”How are you?”**

And then Max is offline again and when his phone rings this time, it’s not an abstract chat or a distant text message, but a call, and Daniel smiles and it’s the first honest and heartfelt smile he conjured onto his lips in hours (which is a crazy amount of time in his terms).  
And then he answers the first call in his new year of age and talks to the person he misses, needs and loves the most.  
Max’s voice is calm, a little bit slurred by champagne and tiredness, but still clear and low and it lifts Daniel’s spirit in a way he can’t wrap his head around. 

He sits alone in a chilly airplane, the sport is shittier than ever, he is placed a distant tenth in the championship standings and has nothing to celebrate at the moment but a number on paper that brings him closer to retirement without a title. And against all odds a wide grin splits his face, bares teeth and laughter lines and illuminates the night when he hears Max on the other end of the line. 

Max, who says nothing more but “Hey, you” and with that fixes more than all the emoji bombardment from his family and friends could manage to fix. Max, who sniggers hoarsely at Daniel’s “Hey, you, too.” as their mandatory exchange of greetings. Max, who’s always there to lift him up, who mends him and makes him fly higher and closer to the sun than any plane could. 

Maybe they’ll falter again, maybe it’ll go wrong. But not tonight and not today and Daniel’s oddly contented with that. He takes a shaky intake of breath and tries to silence the voice in his head. The soft whisper that’s been there all along.  
_I can’t say it, you know? I love you. I can’t, because it would make it real. It would be out there in the world and reality is a fucking cruel place for love. It’s dangerous and I can’t stand the thought of losing you. I just can’t, because it scares me so fucking much and I’m already scared of so many things nowadays and I can’t handle that right now. Not when I’m expected to be strong and smiling. I love you and I’m scared. I’m scared and I love you. It’s like alternately falling and flying all the fucking time. Highs. Lows. No in between._  
He sighs and stays silent.  
He hears Max breathing and the sound lulls him in in the same way it does when they sleep in the same bed.  
“I miss you.” It’s even softer than his breathing if that’s even possible.  
“I know, I’m sorry.”  
“I know that, too. It’s not your fault.”  
The plane tilts a little bit and Daniel smiles at the sight of a few stars scattered across the otherwise completely void night sky. 

“Max?”  
“Mh?”  
“I love you, too.”

**Author's Note:**

> *closes curtain*
> 
> What do you think?  
> It turned out to be way sappier, than I intended it to be, sorry for that. 
> 
> Title is German and translates to: flying and falling.  
> Who wants to understand or rediscover little things I hid in here should read everything from **extremesoft** and should check out the band _Gang of youths_ , Daniel regularly hangs out with. (Aaand I mentioned David, so, big fan^^)
> 
> I hope you enjoyed it, if so (or if not, too), leave a comment and tell me your thoughts :D
> 
> Apart from that… Read you soon,  
> Charona


End file.
